A Rocker's Melody (Dust and Bones) (4 page)

“The B-Side or the shortened, all acoustic track?” she asked without blinking. “As you know, the bass line differs.”

Jesper allowed himself a small, slow smile. Craig nodded, as if proud of her aptitude. That was the moment Dylan realized he was screwed.

“Surprise me,” Jesper said.

And Melody began.

She closed her emerald eyes and let her fingers fly deftly across the strings. The way she played, infusing the chords with a heartfelt, soulful appreciation, brought the bass line to life in a way Dylan had never heard before. A quick glance at his fellow band mates told him they felt the same. Though Rip still looked irritated, there was an unmistakable admiration glinting in his eyes.

She was doing more than meeting their superior standards; she was adding something that had been missing from their sound. Dylan was mesmerized; the creative side of his brain was already riffing, compiling set lists that would be better served by the vibrancy Melody brought to the music.

Then he realized just how sexy she looked when she played—the rhythmic sway of her hips, the way her eyes fluttered open and closed again as she lost herself in the song, the pink flush of excitement upon her cheeks. Dylan remembered why he was screwed.

“That’s enough,” he said, interrupting her. She stopped abruptly, looking a bit stunned, as if she’d forgotten where she was and what she was doing—and damn if that wasn’t sexy, too. She could probably play the whole thing wrong and Dylan would think it was sexy.
So completely screwed.

“Nice!” Tank whisper-yelled, the way he did whenever he got excited.

“Snake has never played it like that,” Jesper said, unflinchingly honest as usual. “Well done.”

“Snake kills that riff,” Rip argued, automatically coming to his oldest friend’s defense.

“I’m not saying he doesn’t,” Jesper said. “Snake’s on fire with that piece; he brings rage and chaos when he plays. But it’s supposed to be an anthem—and she played it like an anthem.”

Rip couldn’t argue with that.

“I’m not sure about this,” Dylan said slowly.

“What exactly are you not sure about?” Craig demanded. “Her proficiency with the guitar, or her familiarity with your musical catalog?”

“The chemistry, man. I’m not feeling it,” Dylan said.

“You guys know I can hear you, right?” Melody said from her place on the stage.

“I want concrete reasons why you think it’s not a good fit,” Craig insisted, speaking over her.

“Besides the fact that you want to put a hot chick on a bus with the likes of us?” Dylan quipped.

“A hot chick that can hang with you, musically or otherwise,” Melody continued. Dylan tried to tune her out, but every word she spoke was burrowing under his skin, causing fire to flood through his veins.

“Are you seriously saying that you jackasses are so ruled by your dicks that you can’t sit next to a lady without losing your minds?” Craig looked disgusted.

“That is exactly what he’s saying and he’s got a point. This chick is good, I just don’t know if hiring someone is a good idea, Snake is our brother,” Rip said.

“It’s going to cause tension,” Dylan continued. “You remember what it’s like on the road, don’t you, Hop?”

“Don’t call me Hop,” Craig grumbled.

Dylan grinned. Craig had received the nickname ‘Hop’ on the first tour he’d ever done, as a roadie for the Rolling Stones. Jagger himself had given him the moniker. The only people who were allowed to use the name were Craig’s immediate family members, or a member of the Stones themselves. Coming from any other living person, it infuriated him—which, of course, was why Dylan used it as often as he did.

“I’m pretty sure I can handle you fellas,” Melody said from the stage.

“Oh, you think that now, honey,” Dylan said, turning his attention back to her. “But by the time we’re eight cities in—”

“Oh my God, you
can
hear me,” she gasped dramatically. “It’s a miracle. Praise Jesus. I’d get down on my knees, but I wouldn’t want to provide you with any imagery you’re not emotionally mature enough to handle.”

“Her sense of humor fits right in,” Tank pointed out, chuckling again. 

“So does her musical ability,” Craig insisted. “She’s a goddamn prodigy.” Why was he being so pushy about this?

“I’m not questioning her talent,” Dylan said. He looked back at Melody, and felt his throat tighten. She was every fear and fantasy he’d had as a fifteen-year-old boy, all wrapped into one curvy, bass playing package.

He could still remember it like it was yesterday, though it had been another fifteen years since that time. He’d been stagnating in his tiny hometown in Oklahoma, yearning to escape his overbearing mother. He’d known what his future would have been if he had stayed there: Dylan would get a job he hated, going through the motions of the same boring routine day after day, he’d be trapped in a meaningless existence.

The only thing that had kept him going, that had pushed him to break out of that prison of mediocrity, was a dream of a better life. He had wanted a life filled with screaming fans and bright stage lights and blasting speakers, a life that promised a different girl in his bed every night, and a different adventure every day as he and his brothers-in-musical-arms fought the good fight against generic pop songs and the death of rock and roll.

Melody stood before him now, dredging up those adolescent dreams. Five-foot-six inches tall with the help of her chunky leather boots, green eyes flashing with determination and chin held high, she was a rock Goddess replete with her red bass guitar. She was the embodiment of everything Dylan had ever wanted—and at the same time, a reminder of all the things he’d feared his entire life.

Either way, he knew he couldn’t spend the next eight weeks trapped on a tour bus with her. No way, no how.

“Then what exactly are you questioning?” she demanded.

Dylan could tell that he wasn’t going to gain any ground using traditional arguments, so he decided to try a different tactic. “Do you know what a female bass player suddenly joining us on tour would be?”

“Betraying Snake,” Rip muttered under his breath.

“A smart decision,” Craig corrected him.

“Our only choice,” Jesper said, with his trademark quiet intensity.

“It’s a gimmick,” Dylan said. “A distraction. Do you think anyone’s going to care about the music when they can gossip about which one of us she screwed to get the gig?”

“Kid, you are treading on very dangerous ground,” Craig warned.

“No,” Melody said. “He’s right.”

“I’m
what
now?” Dylan asked shocked that the only person giving him an assist was the one he was trying to throw under the proverbial tour bus.

Only because she doesn’t like you and you want to screw her...and, even weirder, kiss her.

“They’re going to say I’m sleeping with one of you,” she said, looking back and forth between the guys. “That’s what they do. Throwing a woman into the mix with rock stars is like printing copy for them.”

“Exactly,” Dylan said, though he felt confused. Was he missing something? She wouldn’t be making his case for him unless she had another angle he wasn’t seeing. Then again, maybe she’d realized that she hated him so much that even the exposure the tour would give her wouldn’t be worth spending two months with him.

It was incredibly perverse that her hatred bothered him more than anything else. He had bigger problems to worry about—why was he so hung up on her opinion?

“We’ll be the top story everywhere,” she continued. “People will blog, Tweet, Like, and Comment us into the hottest act in every city we hit. Yes, at first the gossip will eclipse the music...but when the media sees that nothing is going on, they’ll drop it and move on to their next juicy story, like the vultures they are.
They’ll
move on...but we’ll still be there with sold out shows and the last laugh.”

The theater was silent. Dylan couldn’t believe how well she’d played the situation—played
him
. He had to admit, he was pretty turned on by her spirit. There she was: his rare breed, the one that kept getting away. He’d been wasting his breath arguing. She had set her mind on being on tour with them, and he’d been a fool to think he’d have any say in the matter.

Who are you
? he wanted to ask her.
Why do I want you so much?

Jesper broke the silence first. “I want her,” he said, his tone professional and precise, leaving no room for argument. He’d always been the unofficial head of the band. He was smarter and calmer than the rest of them, and he sure as hell made better decisions. He wanted Melody because she was good, and because her inclusion would give Dust and Bones the kind of press that money couldn’t buy.

“Looks like we’ve got us a little sister,” Tank said. Rip didn’t speak, because he’d made it apparent that he didn’t want
any
one replacing Snake. So they all turned to Dylan, who had been the loudest dissenter. He was sure that if he really pushed it—if he dug his heels in and threw an epic rock star tantrum to rival anything in Elton’s documentary—they’d fold. Melody would be out, they’d get a YouTube sensation to play shitty bass, and the tour would probably be fine; a footnote in the Dust and Bones legacy.

But Dylan didn’t want the tour to just be fine. He wanted it to be legendary. And he didn’t want Melody to be out. He wanted her, period. Maybe if he stopped stewing over her rejection long enough to man up and show her what she was missing out on, he’d get to have his cake and eat it, too.

“Alright, well, it is what it is. Welcome aboard, little sister,” Dylan said, his lips curving into a smirk as he imagined her staring up at him as he thrust inside her for the first time.

Melody’s lips pursed briefly before she smiled back at him, wide and insincere. “Thanks.”

“All right, chica.” Tank sprang up from his seat and headed toward the stage to give Melody a congratulatory fist bump, which she returned with a genuine grin.

“If that’s settled,” Craig said, “I want to talk to the kid for a minute.”

“And I want to talk to Melody about her musical heroes,” Tank said, wrapping a big, meaty arm around Melody’s shoulders. She practically disappeared beneath his bulk. “Let me guess, Joan Jett?”

“John Paul Jones,” Melody corrected him as they headed backstage.

Come on
, Dylan thought in desperation,
does she have to be a Zeppelin fan, too?

Rip let out a sigh and headed off on his own, still glued to his phone screen. Jesper hung back. “You good?” he asked Dylan. Dylan gave him a curt nod, and Jesper left to join the others as they quizzed Melody on her musical tastes. Then he turned back to Craig.

The older man was giving him the kind of long, measured look that made Dylan feel like he was sitting in a living room, waiting for Craig’s daughter to come downstairs so he could take her to prom. Craig did not seem like the family man type, though he
had
actually mentioned having a daughter once. Dylan had just been too drunk to pay attention to the details.

“Your album’s only half-finished,” Craig said without preamble.

“It’s coming along,” Dylan retorted. Maybe Craig would go easy on him, seeing as he’d been humbled enough for one morning.

“It’s been half-finished and coming along for months now,” Craig continued, obviously feeling that no amount of humbling would be enough.

“Hop, you know me,” Dylan said. “I come through.”
I have to.

“I do know you, kid,” Craig said. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. You’re a lot of things, but a blocked songwriter isn’t one of them.”

“Don’t say the b-word,” Dylan said coldly, tensing in agitation.

“I don’t know what else to call it. Your first album, you gave me thirty finished songs because you didn’t particularly like the other forty you’d written.”

“I don’t suppose we could just use some of those?” he said, only half kidding.

“You know why we can’t. That material won’t make sense. It’s outdated. People want to know who Dust and Bones are now, not who they were nine years ago.”

“The guys are writing,” Dylan said.

“And they’re not half bad at it,” Craig agreed. “But as much as Jesper is the brains of this operation, you’re supposed to be its heart. You always have been.”

“What a terrible allocation of resources,” Dylan said jokingly. “Tank should be our heart. I’m sure his is the size of an elephant’s.”

“Cut the crap,” Craig said, leaning forward. “I’m gonna tell you something, and you’re gonna listen and comprehend every goddamn word.”

“Hop—”

“And don’t ‘Hop’ me,” he snapped. “I’m serious. Dead fucking serious.”

Dylan pursed his lips and balled his fists, but made no argument. Craig was one man he did
not
want to anger.

“You’re fucking up,” Craig said. “It’s not just the drinking, and it’s not just the lack of songwriting, or the bad press. It’s all of that combined, and the fat, rotting cherry on top of the shit sundae is that you couldn’t care less.”

“Not true, bro,” Dylan grated through clenched teeth. “Nobody cares more about this band than I do, you know that.”

Craig narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized Dylan. “I believe that. But you still won’t clean up your act for it, because that means doing the dirty work.”

“Who the hell died and made you my father?” Dylan muttered.

Craig shook his head.

“Get your shit together,” he continued. “Go on the tour. Play nice with the girl. And write me at least one good radio hit.”

“That’s pretty mercenary of you, Hop,” Dylan said. “Isn’t it supposed to be about the soul of the music, or something artistic like that?”

“Stop being a smartass,” Craig said. Dylan sat back and adjusted his collar. “It’s a digital market now. No one buys albums. It’s a YouTube world we’re living in.”

“Complete with the bass solo version of
All Along the Watchtower
,” Dylan mused.

“He’s not even the worst of it, kid.”

“That’s truly frightening,” Dylan confided.

Craig sighed. “Make music, Dylan. Make the music we both know you’ve got inside you. Use this tour to get back whatever it is that you lost.” He held up a finger. “But if you touch my little girl, I’ll cut your balls off and burn down your career.”